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THE 



Tpailirig y\pbLitus 



AND OTHER 



POEMS 



BY 



REV. S. H. PRATHER, A. M., Ph. D. 



TITUSVILLE, PA.: 
The Morning Herald Print. 



THE l.lf?nAi'^Y OF 
CONGRESS, 

/ nnrv b. 



753^31 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1903, 

by Rev. S. H. Pkather, A. M., Ph. D., Titusville, Pa., 

iji thQ.QffiQ^o^ th§ Libriifiap gf i:pngress at Washington, D. C. 



• • • •< 

> • • • 



DEIDIOAXION. 



To THE MEMBERS OF 

The First Methodist Church of Titusville, 
and other churches 

WHERE I HAVE SERVED AS PASTOR 

OR PRESIDING ElyDER, 

I DEDICATE THIS I.ITTI.E BOOK, 

TRUSTING THEY 

Wllylv FIND PLEASURE IN READING AT I.EAST 

SOME OF ITS POEMS. 

The Author, 



Cf^c Crailing Arbutus 



With breath more sweet 
Than odor of wild rose, 
A tiny blossom glows 

Low at our feet. 

Such Nature weaves, 
Some crimson, others white, 
Hid shyly from our sight 

Under dead leaves. 

Thou didst salute us. 
First not with dainty bloom, 
But with thy rare perfume, 

Modest Arbutus; 

For all around 
Is redolent of thee, 
The mossy stone, the tree, 

The very ground. 

From lowly sod. 
Thou comest glorified 
To shame our vaunting pride, 

Sweet smile of God. 

Thou hast my heart, 
Because it is thy way 
To make no vain display 

Of all thou art. 



^ THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 



Humility 
And modesty of worth, 
The fairest things of earth, 

I see in thee. 

The sham of show 
And vanity of greed, 
In thy fair buds, I read. 

And v/iser grow. 

I read this thought: 
"Blest is the lowly mind. 
To God's great plan resigned, 

Though hard his lot ; 

"The hero's fame 
Is not so fair to Him 
Between the cherubim 

As a good name; 

"And she whose fate 
Is life in hut obscure 
Among her children poor 

May still be great, 

"And hear the One 
Who, weary, had no bed 
Whereon to lay His head. 

Declare, Well done." 

Permit me, dear, 
To place upon thy bosom. 
This wee, bonnie blossom 

Which I have here. 



THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 



An angel might 
His eyes feast on its bloom 
And drink of its perfume 

With pure delight. 

Touch this shy flower, 
And fragrance on thy fingers, 
Like the soft twilight, lingers 

Hour after hour. 

A lesson here: 
Thy mem'ry shall live on, 
After this life is gone, 

Year after year. 

A thought here lies 
Of resurrection power : 
Dust rises in bright flower 

Before our eyes. 

My soul is warmed, 
To think this clay of ours. 
Like loam into these flowers. 

Shall be transformed, 

And from the clod, 
High o'er unfriendly storms, 
Ascend in radiant forms 

To dwell with God. 



Artl]ur anb ITTay, 



O weeping soul, know'st thou the balm 
Which Nature has for sorrow? 

Or troubled, feelest thou the calm 

Which thou from her can'st borrow? 

Go leave the crowd whose minds aflame 

Are worshipping Ambition, 
Whose hope of power, wealth or fame 

Finds never its fruition. 

Study the lowly, fragile flower 

Which opens but to die, 
Or stand alone at midnight hour 

Under the silent sky. 

Hark to the brooklet as it pours 
And ripples through the dell, 

Or to the mingled shouts and roars 
Which waves of ocean swell. 

Observe the dainty wing aglow 

With hues, it is allowed. 
More brilliant than the splendid bow 

The sun paints on the cloud. 

Roam through the deep, untraversed wood 
And feel the charm of places 

Where seeks the panther solitude, 
And the wolf the wild deer chases. 



ARTHUR AND MAY. 9 



Sit on the porch at evening hour 

And hear the roll of thunder, 
As God uplifts His hand of power 

And cleaves the sky asunder. 

Behold, like mountains o'er their plains, 
The clouds their dark forms raising 

And in their ridges, like gold veins. 
The zig-zag lightnings blazing. 

Enjoy the sigh and kiss of breeze 

Before the storm advancing, 
And music on the thirsty trees 

Of pearly raindrops dancing. 

Climb mountains where the sunbeam lingers, 

See Night her robes unfold. 
Or Morning with her rosy fingers 

Crown peaks with ether gold. 

A friend, of all my friends the choice. 

Noble in mind and form. 
To me interprets Nature's voice, 

Whether in calm or storm. 

The song of bird is far more sweet 
When my fond friend is nigh; 

When absent, nothing seems complete 
Either in earth or sky. 

A lovely flower is lovelier still 

When touched by her fair hand; 

Pressed by her footstep, vale and hill 
Henceforth are holier land. 



10 ARTHUR AND MAY. 



As dewdrop images the sun; 

Or placid stream, the sky ; 
So Nature's beauty, all in one, 

Is imaged from her eye. 

In early spring we wander forth 

To seek Arbutus trailing, 
While, o'er the cold and naked North, 

Winds from the South are wailing. 

"Awake, sweet flowers," those south winds call, 

" 'Tis no time now for sleeping; 
The hour is come when you should all 

From your low beds be peeping. 

"Far to the North, the icy forms 

Of Winter's troops are going; 
His breath grows fainter, and cold storms 

Are here no longer blowing. 

"We bring to you from warmer skies 

The earth-refreshing showers. 
With sweet aroma and soft dyes, 

Kissed from the southern flowers. 

• 

"The boys and girls, on every hill. 

Are seeking your bright faces : 
Come forth, sweet smile of God, and fill 

Once more your wonted places. 

"Through all the woodland, shining now, 

The Sun, grown warmer, kisses 
Tlie teardrop from the weeping bough, 

And every thing caresses. 



ARTHUR AND MAY. 11 



**He gilds the morn with rosy hue; 

In evening cloud, he settles ; 
He searches everywhere for you, 

With glory for your petals. 

"The cows, along their homeward route, 
The farmer lad is bringing : 

We hear him playing on his flute ; 
We hear the milkmaid singing. 

*'The bird is building in the tree; 

Softly the rill is flowing; 
Far from its hive flies forth the bee; 

'Tis time that you were glowing." 

Thus while to them the south winds sing, 
Millions of flowers are born. 

As from the sod they quickly spring. 
And all the land adorn. 

Again we roam some fair, sweet morn. 
When June's warm sun is beaming, 

And pure white blossoms of the thorn 
In all the vale are gleaming ; 

When, now and then, the crimson clover, 

By breezes full and free, 
Is swayed, in billows sweeping over, 

Like billows of the sea ; 

When, on each lily of the field, 

A butterfly reposes; 
And in the wood, the air is filled 

With odor of wild roses ; 



12 ARTHUR AND MAY. 



When, in the swamp, the marigold 
In yellow paints the ground; 

And honeysuckles on the wold, 
In crimson, blaze around; 

When, flock and herd the sunny hill 
Leave for the beech tree's shadow, 

Or seek the cool and shady rill 

Which warbles through the meadow. 

'Tis then we roam the virgin wood 
Where moans the lofty pine. 

Or where, to roof the solitude, 
Dense hemlocks intertwine. 

In the dim light among the boughs. 
The owl, safe-sheltered, dozes; 

While underneath his perch, the grouse 
On mossy log reposes. 

Sullen, upon his native tree. 

He sits, no creature with him; 

He scorns the songbird's minstrelsy, 
But loves the brook's low rhythm. 

A soothing silence reigns around; 

No voice in all the trees ; 
No bird's light footstep on the ground; 

No whispering of the breeze ; 

No sound, save the low murmurings 
Of the clear brook, is heard; 

And while alone it softly sings, 
Our hearts are deeply stirred. 



ARTHUR AND MAY. 13 



A mouldering log, enrobed in moss, 
Bridges the purling stream; 

And on its velvet, half across. 
We sit and think and dream. 

Reflected from the crystal brook, 

On mossy log below. 
Two mortals sit with dreamy look ; 

And lovers they are we know. 

As smoothly glide the waters by 

Inverted shrub and tree, 
The wide expanse of mirrored sky 

Looks like a deep blue sea. 

This is the place for perfect rest 
From every worldly care; 

The place for worship at our best ; 
The place for silent prayer. 

We feel, while sweet emotions bound. 

This is a holy hour. 
The angel world is all around. 

And Love its mighty power. 

Our eyes are on the visible; 

Our minds, on the unseen ; 
And thoughts we have no power to tell 

Into our spirits gleen. 

Beneath our feet the brook is wide 
And slow and deep and level; 

But just below, its waters glide 
And babble o'er the gravel 



14 



ARTHUR AND MAY. 



Its chorus has the blended sound 
Of more than twenty rills, 

Which bubble up from sandy ground 
Or gush forth from the hills. 

We sit and muse until we hear 
The part which each rill sings, 

As off it glides or ripples near 
In its meanderings. 

They sing of stormy days gone by. 
When, in the form of spray. 

They fought the dark and raging sky, 
On ocean far away. 

Again they sing of blessed rest, 
When storm has ceased to sweep. 

Glinting the sun low in the west, 
As kissed by him to sleep. 

They sing how on the lily's head. 

Ambrosia is distilled; 
And how the clover, white and red, 

Is with its nectar filled. 

They sing of evening's saffron shroud 

Fading to sombre grey, 
And of the fiery crimson cloud 

Which flames at break of day. 

They sing of gently falling shower 

Upon the fields of grain; 
Of patting on the roof, with power 

To soothe the restless brain; 



ARTHUR AND MAY. 15 



Of weighting clouds until they broke 

In waterspouts to pour, 
And overflowed each creek and woke 

The river's thundering roar. 

Thus onward, ever onward, gliding, 
The brook purls cheerfully ; 

And never for a moment biding, 
It hastens to the sea. 

In this it is like us, my friend ; 

Though now in youth's full bloom, 
Adown life's stream we swift descend; 

Our ocean is the tomb. 

But on a near or distant day. 

These waters will arise 
From ocean billows far away. 

And mount again the skies. 

And so shall we, beyond the grave, 

Another life attain; 
We'll sail upon the crystal wave 

And know and love and reign. 

From shadows of the western hills. 

We see the sun is low ; 
We break the spell of laughing rills, 

And slowly homeward go. 

We feel the presence of that Power 

Who all else underlies. 
Whose fingers trace the wayside flower 

And paint its brilliant dyes; 



16 



ARTHUR AND MAY. 



Who gives the angels their command; 

And reaching out afar, 
Along its course, with careful hand, 

Guides the most distant star. 

The Universe, be it avowed, 

Is laid on Reason's lines ; 
And Nature is the fiery cloud 

Through which Jehovah shines. 






€pcnttbc. 



The day is gone; and yonder 
The red sun, taking leave, 

Sinks our horizon under. 
And — lo, the hush of eve. 

A stream of splendor flushes 

Cloud ships, which anchored lie; 

And, in fiery crimson blushes, 
Flames all the western sky. 

Beyond those blazing fringes, 
Beyond the evening star, 

Upon its golden hinges. 

The pearl gate swings ajar. 

I see God's holy nation; 

His throne above all thrones ; 
The City whose foundation 

Is built of precious stones. 

Down through the opened portal, 
Mansions of sapphire shine, 

Whose occupants immortal 
Sip sweet ambrosial wine. 

Afar the holy mountains 

Loom high o'er spicy hills; 

And from them, living fountains 
Flow down in laughing rills. 



18 



EVENTIDE. 



Archangel hosts are riding 

In chariots of gold, 
Their winged war steeds guiding, 

Like Grecian gcxls of old. 

A. great exploit impelling, 
They fly to realms afar, 

To thwart a world rebelling, 
Or set a new-made star. 

A. white-winged ship is sailing 
Over the Crystal Sea ; 

And, leaning o'er the railing, 
A fair form beckons me. 

Though robed she is in splendor, 
Too bright for mortal eye, 

Her meek heart is as tender 
As in the years gone by. 

The stately ship is gliding 
Smoothly the waters o'er. 

Her diamond prow dividing 
The limpid wave before. 

I hear, methinks, the singing 
And harping of a band ; 

While tones of a deep bell ringing 
Throb from the distant land. 

*** *** 5{t5|S5|c ^>|c^ 

The clouds, no longer blazing 

Like isles of amethyst, 
Their thunder-peaks are raising 

Along the darkling west. 



EVENTIDE. 19 



The stars, into their places, 
Are coming one by one, 

With glory-beaming faces, 
Like children of the sun. 

The babbling brook rejoices 
O'er hush of singing bird; 

And wierd enchanting voices 
Of sable Night are heard. ^ 

The mellow moonbeam shimmers 
In the quivering poplar spray. 

And a royal highway glimmers 

Where the queen sails up the bay. 

The near light and the far light, 
My window and the moon. 

The gleaming bay and the star-light. 
Have waked me all too soon. 

Gone are the scenes before me ; 

The angel world is gone ; 
The night wind sighs ; and o'er me. 

The flaming stars march on. 



C{jc ®Ib ^omcsteab. 



The soft zephyr comes 
The blooming vale over; 
And, in the white clover, 

The busy bee hums. 

The air is alive 
With honeycomb makers. 
For acres and acres, 

Around the old hive. 

'Tis plain to be seen, 
A new kingdom is forming, 
And its subjects are swarming 

Around their young queen 

On a bough, just above 
Some wild roses blooming, 
There sits, her wings pluming, 

A lone turtle dove. 

But where the pine moans, 
I hear her mate calling, 
A pensive bird, drawling 

In smooth, solemn tones. 

O'er clearing and wood. 
Fly flocks of wild pigeons, 
Which scour the wide regions 

For a morsel of food. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 21 



No shelter they know; 
For huntsmen, them baiting. 
In ambush are waiting, 

Wherever they go. 

On a chestnut tree near, 
A red squirrel, frisking 
And scolding, is risking 

His life to be here. 

But do him no harm : 
He is not to be blamed ; 
For his forefathers claimed 

A right in this farm, 

Long ages before 
The sturdy fur-vender 
Had gazed on the splendor 

This valley then wore. 

The proud pheasant drums 
On mossy log yonder; 
And, as low distant thunder, 

The muffled sound comes. 

'Tis a sure sign of rain, 
A warm gentle shower 
To bathe the bright flower 

And cheer all the plain. 

Perched high on a rail, 
To watch the intruding 
Upon his mate brooding, 

"Bob White," pipes the quail. 



22 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 



His kind only knows 
What mean his shrill words, 
And whether, to birds 

Addressed, or to foes. 

On a low-bending reed, 
A young lark is swinging; 
And others are winging 

Across the green mead. 

So cheerful and free. 
They borrow no trouble 
From fear a hard stubble 

The mead will soon be. 

The thrush, in sweet trills. 
Her glad song is pouring ; 
And the grey hawk is soaring 

High over the hills. 

Swift humming birds dart 
Around the sweet brier. 
Which glows like the fire 

In the old chimney's heart. 

With a buzz and a gleam 
And a sip of the nectar, 
They are gone, like a specter, 

We see in a dream. 

A spring glides away 
From 'neath a great boulder, 
A stream which seems colder 

The warmer the day. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 23 



It ripples, and laves 
Young cowslips and cresses, 
And wafts their fair tresses 

On cool, limpid waves. 

Below, winds about 
A brook through the meadow. 
Where tall willows shadow 

The shy graceful trout. 

And farther along, 
'Neath hemlocks o'er spreading, 
The vale it is threading. 

With sweet purling song. 

'Tis a song of the rills 
Which come from bright fountains 
Upon the green mountains 

Beyond the green hills. 

A wind o'er the lea 
Now sways the red clover. 
In waves sweeping over, 

Like waves of the sea. 

I love the bright scene, 
The rocking and dancing 
And seeming advancing 

Of crimson and green. 

The army of blooms 
Right onward seem gliding — 
Ten thousand knights riding 

And nodding their plumes. 



24 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 



With sway to and fro, 
The tall lily dozes, 
Or kisses the roses, 

Sweet blushing below. 

What beauty and worth 
And fragrance of blossom 
Come forth from the bosom 

Of old Mother Earth ! 

O wonderful sod ! 
Where Life is selecting 
Her forms for reflecting 

The smile of our God. 

■{■ 

The soil is the loom ; 
And Life, the skilled weaver. 
And Man, the receiver 

Of nature in bloom. 

Now, since the frail flower 
The Father hath traced 
And perfumed and graced. 

To blush a brief hour • 

Will He not glorify 
His child, all immortal. 
And open the portal 

For him to the sky! 



Q[{]c Summer 51]0tpcr. 



There has not fallen a drop of rain 

For weeks upon the land; 
The leaves are withered ; flowers, droopea, 

By parching breezes fanned ; 
And to the world of verdure, Death 

Seems even now at hand. 

But no ; for in the west, a cloud 
Swells black in mountain form; 

The vivid flare and rumbling roar 
Signal an awful storm. 

Flaming with wrath and charged with powe' 
Its mission to perform. 

Small whirlwinds, dashing to and fro, 

Are scouting everywhere, 
And whirling dust and wrested leaves 

Through all the whistling air ; 
And frightened birds are flying fast 

To shelter here and there. 

With blazing flags, yon army comes. 

Loud pealing the alarm; 
Trees writhe and wrestle, moan and groan 

Beneath its powerful arm; 
And blinding flash and deafening crash 

Startle our fears of harm. 



26 THE SUMMER SHOWER. 



Bolt after bolt, the Thunderer 
Does in his right hand raise; 

It rives the welken, shakes the ground, 
Fills mortals with amaze, 

And roars and rolls, while flash on flash 
Keeps all the heaven ablaze. 

The ocean rising to the skies 

Has overleaped the shore; 
And clouds, like dread Niagara, 

Their seething torrents pour ; 
While driving wind and rushing flood 

Muffle the thunder's roar. 

The crimson clover and the maize. 
Late withering, are not seen ; 

For all the flat is one vast lake. 
Wide spreading o'er the green, 

Without a daisy or wild rose 
To deck the silvery sheen. 

A few hours later, what a change! 

The earth has stored the rain 
In reservoirs deep under ground 

To feed the springs again; 
And the surplus water brims along 

The river to the main. 

The maple, with ten thousand lips, 

Is sipping from the soil ; 
The tender corn stands up and smiles, 

Improved by the turmoil ; 
And out among more fragrant flowers, 

The bee flies forth to toil. 



THE SUMMER SHOWER. 27 



Safe from their hiding, come the birds 

To sing sweet roundelays; 
Soft breezes fan the laughing trees ; 

And sheep and oxen graze 
With gratitude; and Nature all 

Is redolent with praise. 

>KsK* . *5}=* *** *** 

Ease, undisturbed, is oft a drought 
Which wilts and sears the soul; 

Ambition builds beneath the stars; 
The flesh is in control; 

And all unheeded or unheard, 
The Sinai thunders roll. 

Fortune, who long had rosy smiles, 

Assumes an angry frown ; 
For wealth takes wing and flies away, 

Or health is broken down ; 
Or laurel wreath which graced the brow 

Gives place to thorny crown. 

Yes, angry clouds o'erspread the sky, 

And awful thunders roar; 
Both wind and wave besiege the soul ; 

But soon their wrath is o'er ; 
And suddenly there comes a peace 

Which was not known before. 

The Lord into His garden comes. 
Finds graces blooming there, 

Because a storm has washed the face 
Of rose and lily fair. 

And lashed the trees and swept the sky 
And purified the air. 



28 THE SUMMER SHOWER. 



The Spirit witnesses with ours, 
We are the sons of God, 

.A.nd royal heirs with Jesus Christ, 
If we endure the rod 

\nd cHmb the steep and rugged way 
Whereon the Master trod. 




After Rawest 



Over the globe 
In many a graceful fold, 
Trails, glittering with gold, 

Rich Autumn's robe. 

The birds that sing 
At ope and shut of day, 
To southlands far away 

Have taken wing. 

With hungry eye, 
Where late the waving grain 
Made golden all the plain. 

Wild pigeons fly. 

Yet no complaint 
They pipe into the air, 
Although the ground is bare 

And they are faint. 

The crow alone 
His noisy throat intrudes, 
And wakes the silent woods 

With rasping tone. 

I hear and see 
The grouse's whirring wing, 
And the squirrel's nimble spring 

From tree to tree. 



30 AFTER HARVEST. 



Where'er the plow 
Unbroken left the sod, 
The flaming goldenrod 

Makes graceful bow. 

Though in the trees, 
No more the song of bird ; 
Yet 'mong these flowers is heard 

The hum of bees, 

In soothing tones, 
As those of purling rill. 
Flowing beneath the hill 

O'er pebble stones. 

On every hand. 
Fringing the meadow stream. 
Bright yellow daisies gleam 

And paint the land. 

They bend at times 
Before the passing breeze. 
Like saints upon their knees 

At evening chimes. 

They rise and yield 
In many a graceful wave — 
A golden lake to lave 

Field after field. 

AFTER THE FROST. 

Frost fell amain, 
And the flowers of yesterday 
Have all fled swift away 

From wood and plain. 



AFTER HARVEST. 31 



Kissed by the breeze, 
The chestnut, plump and brown, 
Comes ratthng, thumping down 

From lofty trees. 

On yonder crags, 
Out of the sombre haze, 
Sumac and maple blaze 

Ivike crimson flags. 

Along the river 
And down the deep ravine, 
The hemlock stands as green 

And dense as ever. 

But on each hand, 
Swell hills of red and gold 
Where glories manifold 

Emblaze the land. 

Among the trees, 
A pensive wind is sighing; 
And gaudy leaves are flying 

On every breeze. 

And as they fly. 
They tell the old, old tale. 
How mortals are but frail 

And soon must die. 

A moment brief. 
And from the quivering spray 
Breaks off and falls away 

The strongest leaf. 



32 AFTER HARVEST. 



And as Decay 
The tree will soon efface, 
So all the human race 

Will pass away. 

So let it be, 
For Life will burst its tomb ; 
The rose again will bloom — 

So let it be ; 

And some glad day, 
Where blossoms never wither 
On trees ambrosial — thither 

We'll make our way. 




Ct^c (Early Snoxo. 



Only yesterday the maples spread with gold the ground below ; 
And today the hoary winter scatters down the feathery snow. 

Out on mountain and in valley, on the farm and in the town, 
With a flutter soft as cherub's wing, great flakes are floating 
down. 

Other sounds are hushed to silence ; and the kisses of the breeze 
Are too faint in all the forest to give motion to the trees. 

Shrubs of pine in robes of ermine bow themselves like saints 

in prayer, 
While, like angels hovering o'er them, soft white forms fill all 

the air. 

On the mansion of the wealthy and the palace of the king, 
On the wigwam of the Red Man in deep forest sheltering, 

On the vine-entangled thicket, haunt of fox and home of hare, 
On the silent wildernesses where the panther has her lair, 

And on lake and laughing river, though the water bui ies all, 
Wafting, plunging, hesitating, winter's pure white blossoms 
fall. 

O, I love to look aloft and watch the crumbling, tumbling snow, 
For the while I gaze there come again the days of long ago; 

And I wish I were a child, untaught and innocent, once more, 
Having Nature for my teacher with the charms she had of 
yore. 



34 THE EARLY SNOW. 



When her every phase dehghted my untrained and wondering 

eye, 
And I thought the snowflakes fairies promenading through the 

sky. 

But my soul, sigh not for childhood's time; eternity is vast; 
And the present, all considered, is e'en better than the past ; 

And the future better still ; the golden age is on before. 

For the pathway of the just shines on forever more and more. 

So we leave the past and present ; onward, upward, home- 
ward go 

To the land where saints are robed in garments whiter than 
the snow. 



ycstcrbay, Co=6ay anb ^ovcvcv. 



From th' unbeginning, Night supreme 
Reigned in immensity alone; 
For Day, unborn, had cast no gleam 
On her black throne. 

Angels, if not then increate. 
Fanned through dark space with ebon wing, 
Around th' eternal throne, to wait 
On their great King. 

A thought too great for human mind: 
What lacked beginning passed away, 
When non-beginning Night resigned 
Her sovereign sway. 

Then Elohim, before whose face 
Eternity had dwelt in Night, 
Proclaimed His fiat through all space, 
"Let there be light;" 

And suddenly as lightning's flare 
Reveals the form of midnight cloud. 
The golden shafts sped everywhere 
With worlds endowed. 

It may be, angels swept the skies 
Close in the wake of fleeing Night, 
And found themselves, to their surprise, 
Enrobed in white; 



36 YESTERDAY, TO-DAY AND FOREVER. 



While loud and clear their voices rang 
With hallelujahs unto God, 
And sweet the glowing ether sang, 
Streaming abroad. 

Condensing fire-mist formed the stars. 
That blazing chandelier of God ; 
And Day his shafts, from those bright cars, 
Now hurls abroad. 

Millions of years those suns have shone, 
And millions more they yet may shine. 
Before they, at God's awful throne. 
Their fires resign. 

Yet temporal are the things we see; 
And every orb that spins in space 
Will fall before a stern decree 
From out its place. 

The Earth will plunge into the Sun ; 
The Sun will crash on Alcyone; 
All systems will, their long race run. 
Be overthrown. 

The staggering galaxies will fall 
And, into one great volume, roll — 
The Universe in one great ball, 
A finished scroll. 

But endless are the things unseen : 
The soul, worth more than stars are worth. 
Will live to see a fairer green 
Than that of Earth. 



YESTERDAY, TO-DAY AND FOREVER. 37 



A brighter sun will rise than ours ; 
A grander world will heave in view, 
With bluer skies and sweeter flowers, 
And all things new. 

A river from the throne of God, 
With trees of life on either hand. 
Will pour its living streams abroad 
Through all the land; 

And we shall linger on its brink. 
Converse about the days of old — 
These days — and drink, where seraphs drink, 
From cups of gold. 

On spicy mount, in blooming vale. 
Where foes of no sort ever roam, 
We often shall each other hail 
In that sweet home. 

Fullness of life we then shall know. 
With rapture then our hearts will thrill, 
When we shall pluck the fruits which grow 
On Zion's hill. 

No threatening cloud will there appear ; 
No chilling wind will fan the sky ; 
And God will wipe away the tear 
From every eye. 



€Icanor. 



Just over the way, in a window, 
A modest young woman I see ; 

And somehow I fear she is dreaming 
Of things which are never to be. 

The mountain swells high in the distance ; 

The river glides smoothly below ; 
And yet the bright landscape before her 

Has not her attention, I know. 

Come thou from her presence and tell me. 
Thou purest of muses, tell why 

Emotion wells up in her bosom 

And gives such a depth to her eye. 

She dreams of a day which is over, 
Of one which she yet hopes to see, 

A day when a promise was given, 
A day when fulfilled it may be; 

For artless and pure as Rebekah, 

Her heart has been won by a friend 

Who pledges to wed and to love her. 
Till death their sweet union shall end. 

But O, how uncertain the future! 

How fickle in heart are some men ! 
How many a beautiful woman 

Has loved and been loved all in vain ! 



ELEANOR. 39 



But who could forego such a treasure 

As Helen in rapture of love, 
No wife could he find that would please him, 

On Earth or in Heaven above. 

A prayer for the realization 

Of all her fond hopes I record, 

If such be the best ; if it be not, 

Sustained may she be by the Lord. 




Slljc f?arr>c5t f^omc. 



My friends, we are gathered to rest from our labors 

Beneath these great trees with their w^ide reaching arms, 

To hear brief addresses, and eat with our neighbors 
Around one long table the fruits of our farms. 

The children are with us, the dearest of creatures, 
As happy as robins which sing in the gloam. 

They run, swing, and cheer to give vent to their natures, 
Untrammeled by ''don'ts" which restrain them at home. 

A picnic, methinks, without children resembles 

A springtime which has neither songbird nor flower; 

A night in whose sky no star ever trembles ; 

A summer which knows neither dewdrop nor shower. 

O innocent children! we joy in your romping 
Around here among us and farther beyond 

Where, bridging and splashing and wading and swamping, 
You pluck the white lilies which grow in the pond. 

May God bless you now in your life's early morning 
And lead you along where the smooth waters flow. 

Of Satan's device may you have ample warning, 

That the bad you may shun and the good only know. 

:|c:|c4c ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ 



THE HARVEST HOME. 41 



The maiden is here on the arm of her lover 
Attempting to Hsten to what I may teach. 

Her eye is as deep as the deep sky above her ; 

Her cheek has the down and the rose of the peach. 

How fondly her lover is looking upon her, 
While twisting his mustache into a hook ! 

He's thinking of fishing — he is upon honor — 
He's thinking of fishing and catching a cook. 

But, being no prophet, I can not tell whether 

The fish he is baiting is going to bite ; 
And yet I feel certain, from what I can gather, 

Mustaches full often catch fishes at night. 

Enkindled by hope his eye often flashes 

The lightning which tells of his mind's latent power. 
Mad Ocean its billows around him oft dashes : 

We hope he prevails in temptation's dark hour. 

For help which he needs he may look to the mountains 
And know that his help cometh down from the Lord : 

The thirst of his soul he may slake from the fountains 
Of wisdom and truth which are found in God's Word. 

But since I avow a desire to be truthful. 

Right here a suspicion I must interject. 
That some of these men who are stalwart and youthful 

The best and the highest are prone to neglect. 

O true may they be to their fathers and mothers. 
And true to the maidens who in them confide; 

As served they would be may they aim to serve others, 
And each as a bridegroom be worthy his bride. 



42 THE HARVEST HOME. 



I take off my hat to this young generation 
And cheerfully give to each one my hand; 

For they are the sinew and bone of the nation, 
The beauty, the joy, and the pride of the land. 

Before me are farmers whose crops have been gathered, 
And who can rejoice that the hard work is o'er. 

They care nothing now for the storms which they weathered, 
The heat and the cold and the burdens they bore. 

Their work has been hard ; their lives have been prosy 
In spite of the landscapes which lay at their feet ; 

In spite of the mornings all purple and rosy; 
In spite of the clover so crimson and sweet. 

The land which they tilled was both stony and rooty, 

And often the oxen were slow to obey ; 
Along with the meadow and orchard's rich beauty, 

The jolt of the plow is remembered today. 

How often as soon as the day's work was over, 

When all things were hushed but the poor whippoorwill, 

They lay, weary, down on the young tender clover 
And felt a sweet rest which no sluggard can feel. 

They surely are worthy to have recreation 

And feel once again the return of life's spring. 

O let them enjoy the sweet song and oration 

And shout with the children until the woods ring. 

}|c:(c:|c *5ic* **♦ **♦ 



THE HARVEST HOME. 43 

Housekeepers are present, the care-laden mothers, 
Who sit up and sew while the husbandman sleeps ; 

They sew up the tears for the children and others ; 
But sow not the tares which the wicked man reaps. 

These women for days have been baking and broiling ; 

They now spread the feast 'neath the great azure dome 
And smile as they see the results of their toiling 

In the one great essential of our Harvest Home. 

So, talk how they will, use ''awful" for "very," 

And ''splendid" for "nice," and "lovely" for "fine," 
Their robes smell of spices, their voices are cheery. 
And bright their sweet faces with happiness shine. 

They may not have followed at high school or college 
A course of instruction all laid out by rule, 

And yet they have gathered a practical knowledge 
Which never is gained while at work in the school. 

I place far above theoretical grammar 

The science of cooking which these madams know : 

There is much in this world which is nothing but glamour — 
But real the good things which come from the dough. 

^^>|j ^'K^Ss i!<>!^5i< >^>K^ 

Among us are women whose forms are low bending 
Beneath the great burden of eightv long years. 

The time seems but brief since their voices were blending 
In song with young lovers who called them their "dears." 

How well they remember the huskings and quiltings 
Where they were the maidens so buxom and fair ! 

How well they recall the coquettings and jiltings 

Which they with all mortals were destined to share! 



44 THE HARVEST HOME. 



These granddames when young had no Httle cunning : 
They carded the soft wool and scutched the tough flax ; 

They kept the great loom and the spinning wheel running 
And made all the cloth which was worn on their backs. 

They followed the footpath which led over mountain 

Or down into valley of hemlock and pine. 
They gathered forget-me-nots blue by the fountain 

And caught the shy trout with their crude hook and line. 

As daughters, as sisters, as wives, and as mothers 
Their duties these women most nobly performed. 

They lived not for self so much as for others 

Whose spirits by their loving spirits were warmed. 

Their beaux who came courting are here represented 
By a dozen survivors now feeble and gray. 

They lean on their staves as they walk ; yet contented 
And cheerful they are as young children at play. 

Turn life's pages backward for two generations, "^ 

And these were the men of ambition and power 

Who hewed from the forest their ample plantations 
And met at all times the demands of the hour. 

They felled the huge hemlock, the birch, and the pine tree. 

The walnut, the chestnut, the beach, and the oak. 
They rolled up great log heaps ; and many a fine tree 

Went down into ashes and up into smoke. 

Tliey built themselves cabins, school houses, and church'-s. 
And trained up their children the way they should go. 

Instead of their offspring, they spoiled the young birches, 
As some of you middle-aged people well know, 

toFO. 



THE HARVEST HOME. 45 



Yet once in awhile, at the clearing or logging, 
When gin had inflamed and driven him mad, 

A stalwart among them inflicted a flogging 
On one, peradventure, the best friend he had. 

To play with a venomous reptile is risky : 

More dangerous far is the snake of the still. 

We blame the man less than the poisonous whiskey 
Which loosens the tongue while it deadens the will. 

It took generations to learn of the evil 

Which comes to the home from the use of Rum's bowl 
But now we all know 'tis a wile of the devil 

Who uses this method of damning the soul. 

Wide rivers these men often crossed without bridges 
In hunting the wildcat, the wolf, and the bear. 

The sly and fierce panther on green-mantled ridges. 
With flint-firing gun, they were ready to dare. 

Yet no one was certain on pulling the trigger 
Which, he or the beast, was about tO' expire; 

For panthers when wounded for battle were eager. 
And flints were struck often without flash of fire. 

The young man is proud of his strength ; and his glory 
Is what he can do, though yet scarcely begun : 

The old has just pride in a head that is hoary 

And a frame bent by toil which was long ago done. 

A good jolly time at this picnic is legal; 

The dignified may little children appear; 
The aged their strength may renew like the eagle. 

By all taking part in the merry good cheer. 



U:) \a-j:5 



46 THE HARVEST HOME. 



Good cheer is a tonic — it makes one live longer — 
''Does good like a medicine," Solomon said. 

It sweetens the spirit and makes the nerves stronger ; 
It toughens the muscle and clears up the head. 

Delight in this excellent day is a duty 

We owe to ourselves and also to God : 
We ought to be joyful o'er all the rich beauty 

Which flames in the sky or up-springs from the sod. 

No patience have I with a narrow religion 

Which offers a blessing in naught except prayer : 

''The joy of the Lord is our strength," and the region 
To exercise strength is in life ev'ry where. 

If Jesus were with us, methinks. He would mingle 
With innocent children and veteran saints ; 

Or each of us kindly address, and then single 
Out some one afflicted and heal his complaints. 

God bless these old folks while their strength is declining, 
And while they go halting on down to the tomb. 

May clouds as they come show their bright golden lining, 
And a light in the valley disperse all its gloom. 

And God bless us all, for our poor lives are fleeting 
And those now the youngest will soon be the old. 

And new generations will come to this meeting 
Long after our forms have returned unto mold. 

In Nature's green fane we may meet again never. 

For Time all remorseless will mow down our ranks : 

But O may we gather by Life's limpid river 

And sup 'neath the trees all abloom on its banks. 



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